Pickwick’s Tenn-Tom Marina had recently been renovated, and it appeared expansive and beautiful. Massive metal roofs supported by steel frames covered hundreds of slips. As usual, some slips were left uncovered to accommodate the tall masts of sailboats. They charged 65 cents per foot for docking fee, including restrooms, showers, laundry room, and a courtesy car. An $11.70 dock fee and 25-cent coffee made this seem a most reasonable place. Unfortunately, they had not built their restaurant yet so we would have to use their courtesy car to get to town. When I asked about getting some beer, the lanky young fellow at the fuel pump told me, "This marina is located one mile into the State of Mississippi, in a dry county." "Oh shit." I said to myself. I was quickly relieved when he continued, "But, when you take the courtesy car to town for dinner you will be back in Tennessee." Later, we would go to Viv’s Barbecue where I would relish three beers with my meal.

The busy harbormaster courteously showed us to our slip and helped us secure our lines. There were many large yachts in the slips around us. All the yachts had connected to the power provided at the dock, to run their air conditioners and TV’s. As usual, the other visiting vessels dwarfed our little boat. A little later the security guard visited us, and said that if we needed anything during the night to call on channel 16. We were going to be in Mississippi for another 150 miles on the Tenn-Tom Waterway before entering Alabama for the last 300 miles to Mobile. I hoped that not all the counties in Mississippi were dry.

We turned in at about nine o’clock that night. Someone’s boat alarm sounded off most of the night and on into the morning till the batteries ran out. I dreamed that Bob casually walked off the edge of the dock, sank down under the water, and slowly bobbed back to the surface. He sank and rose several times, but it appeared to me that he knew what he was doing. The usual dawn chorus of waking birds interrupted my dreams, but I forced myself to tune them out for another hour of sleep. At seven, Ted and I sauntered over to ship store to get coffee while Bob took a shower. We had a relaxing morning and didn’t shove off till 9:15 A.M. on that first day of May

That Saturday morning, choppy water kept our speed down, but we arrived 37 miles downstream at Bay Springs Marina by noon to make a quick fuel stop. Jamie Whitten Lock and Dam was just a mile downstream, so I radioed the lockmaster on channels 16 and 13 (as indicated in Quimby’s). We got no response. I repeatedly tried to raise him on both channels as we approached the lock. After cruising around the entrance to the lock for an hour with no response to our calls, I suggested we try using the small craft signal rope positioned at the entrance to the lock. Instructions posted on the wall near the signal rope indicated we should pull the line and wait for the green entry light. I had seen these signal devices at several of the locks we used. Bob insisted that was not the proper procedure for signaling a lockmaster since he had read about locking procedures in the Tenn-Tom waterway guide. When I told him to read the sign at the entrance, he repeated, "That is not what it says to do in the guide. Keep radioing." After 30 more minutes of fruitless broadcasting, I became frustrated and said, "We might as well go over and dock at that pier over there. It’s only a quarter mile away from the lock. We can get to the lock entrance in only a few minutes from there. Why should we putt around here wasting gas?" Bob said, "Just stay here. They are probably just busy." I couldn’t take it anymore. I drove to the dock, and while Ted tied us up, I went on shore with my cell phone, sat under the shade of a tree, and called the number listed in Quimby’s for the Jamie Whitten Lock and Dam. To my queries, the attendant replied that his radio was accidentally turned down too low. He said he would begin filling the lock immediately.

In about 20 minutes the gate opened, and I piloted us to a floating bollard on our starboard side near the middle of the lock. I felt we were now pretty experienced with this procedure, as my speed and approach to the bollard were perfect. As usual, we had the tarp partially undone, and I was standing in the cockpit with one hand on the steering wheel. Ted had the line ready, and as I neared the bollard I used the slack he provided to make two loops around the bollard. Ted then tied off his end of the line to the boat’s stern cleat. The method of mooring we were using was described in the Tenn-Tom waterway guide, as the procedure for mooring to a floating bollard when you don’t have a mid-ship cleat. One end of the line is attached to the forward cleat, the middle of the line is looped twice around the bollard’s horn, and the other end is attached to the stern cleat. We had three rubber bumpers strategically placed on our starboard to protect the boat from the concrete lock wall. We were secured in record time, and I radioed the lockmaster, "This is the Sippi. We are secure."

The water level quickly began to drop, but the bollard we were tied to suddenly jammed in its channel. I yelled, "Loosen the line Ted," and hastily radioed the lockmaster, who said, "Put some slack in the line." As the line became taut, Ted struggled, and the boat listed to the side. Bob yelled, "Cut the line." I was reaching for my pocketknife, when Ted freed the line from the rear cleat, just as the bollard became unstuck. I surmised that now we were experienced. The line should only be hitched once around the boat’s rear cleat and held by hand, rather than tied securely.

The lockmaster dumped 45 million gallons of water into the lower Tenn-Tom Waterway, and we dropped 84 feet to the level of the exit. Once the massive lower gates swung open, we eased out of the lock and continued downstream. In fifteen minutes we pulled into the open upper gate of the G. V. Montgomery Lock. We rapidly descended 30 feet, and as we prepared to depart, the lockmaster asked if we were the Sippi, and were we continuing downstream to the next lock. I radioed back an affirmative. The lockmaster said he would call ahead to the next lock, so they would be ready for us.

We arrived at John Rankin Lock at 3:30 Saturday afternoon, and were out by 4:00. We arrived at Fulton lock at 4:30 P.M. and exited by 5:00. When there was not a lot of traffic you could get great service through the locks, if you communicated ahead with your ETA’s. We pulled into the small, Smithville Marina at 6:00 P.M., took on 17 gallons of fuel, and paid a $12.50 dock fee. We had made 72 miles that day. Considering the four locks we had negotiated today and a two-hour delay at Jamie Whitten, I thought we made excellent progress.

Jesse Cox had built this marina himself in 1986, and was tending the store when we arrived. Bob went around back to help a little girl fly her kite, while Ted and I made phone calls. Jesse was a spirited old geezer, who seemed anxious to help us with our needs. After Jesse took care of business around the marina, he gave us a ride to Mel’s Diner, a couple of miles down the road in Smithville, Mississippi. On the way, he showed us his farmland. Later, from the diner, we phoned him at his home, and he brought us back to the marina. He noticed we were docked at a section of broken dock, and said, "That’s the garbage dock. Don’t you want to move?" I said, "We’d manage to step around the holes." All the floating docks here were wobbly, and you had to be careful not to pitch off.

Swells from offshore breezes rocked the boat occasionally during the night. I dreamed I was sitting at a table here at the marina. Some kids came by and started grabbing my gear off the table. I asked, "What’s going on?" They said, "We’re bored." I asked, "What do you want to do?" They danced about and shouted, "Let’s go to the abandoned village. It’s just around the corner." I followed them down the trail to the decaying town. They scrambled over the flimsy structures daring precarious falls. I finally entered a structure that looked sound. Inside was like a fun house. There was an elevator in a closet, and the twisted wooden frames of other doors around the room hinted at thrills in the shadows beyond. Before I could begin exploring, I was wrenched from my adventure by the dutiful waking birds greeting the new day. I forced myself back to sleep until 6:30 A.M., when Ted got up. Bob was still snoring, so I went up on shore and updated my journal. Ted got a ride to church at 9:30 A.M. I reviewed the Quimby’s. It is 70 miles to a marina just inside Alabama. If we could make that today (Sunday), it was possible we could make Mobile on Wednesday.

That Sunday morning, May 2^nd, we eased out of Smithville at 11:30, and were at Glover Wilkins Lock by noon. We reached Armory Lock five miles downstream at 12:40 P.M., and had to wait while the lock raised a towboat that was coming up the river. By 1:30 P.M. we were out of the lock, and soon we were skimming over calm water, down the gradually twisting channel through the thickly wooded Mississippi hills. In less than an hour we arrived at Aberdeen Lock. The lockmasters had been calling ahead to our next lock downstream, and at each lock we approached, we were asked us for our ETA at the next lock. The gates were opening as we approached the Aberdeen Lock entrance, and we were out of the lock at 2:35 P.M. In an hour we covered another 23 miles and arrived at John C. Stennis Lock and Dam. We went through that lock in 25 minutes.

The calm waters, we had been accustomed to that day, became more and more choppy, as we began to encounter Sunday afternoon pleasure boaters. Jet skis raced up and down the channel creating small inconsequential wakes. We had to slow down frequently to avoid large powerboat wakes and to avoid causing a wake of our own. Some of the operators of the larger powerboats seemed unaware that legally, they were responsible for the consequences of their wake. There was very little driftwood in the Tenn-Tom here, and the only challenge to boating was avoiding occasional large wakes. At times we were fiercely tossed about. We pulled into Marina Cove at 5:05 P.M. just as the engine sputtered a bit. We had gone 72 miles and passed through four locks since our last fuel stop. At Marina Cove we took on 29 gallons of gas and paid a $7.20 dock fee. Marina Cove is barely inside Alabama near Carrollton. Fred Ellis, the harbormaster, showed us to a slip. Later, he loaned us his truck and gave us directions to the Grant Lodge Restaurant, which is about six miles from the marina.

I couldn’t get comfortable in my bag that night, and soon, I got an awful cramp in my right foot. The front and rear facing bucket seats fold down to create a six-foot bed with the seat contours creating hills and valleys that accommodate only limited sleeping positions. I thought that by now I would have worked out a comfortable position, but I still twisted and turned for some while before I dropped off to sleep. I dreamed of being on a small boat in the midst of hundreds of boats fighting high waves and floating ice in a far northern sea. We appeared to be in a race to the north, as if there was a land rush ahead. Some small boats were being swamped, overtaken, and passed by the frenzied hordes. Later I dreamed I was in a small town in Alaska. Wolfs, black bears, and grizzlies roamed the streets, climbed through windows, and attacked anything that moved.

The tension was broken by Alabama’s Monday morning ensemble of waking birds providing the usual 5:30 reveille. I forced myself back to sleep till 6:30. At 9:00 A.M., Fred gave Ted and Bob a lift to the nearby "Montgomery" museum boat. I declined the tour, so I could update my journal. I studied the Quimby’s to plan our future fuel stops, and I found that it was 90 miles from here to Demopolis Yacht Basin. There were two locks and no fuel stations between us and there. The next 98 miles from Demopolis Yacht Basin to Bobby’s Fish Camp would be our longest run between fuel stations on the Tenn-Tom. I met a mariner while I was relaxing on the porch of the marina store. He said he thought Bobby’s Fish Camp might be closed, and we would then need to go another 40 miles to Lady’s Landing. I asked him about the marinas around Mobile, Alabama. He recommended the Grand Mariner, and at my request, he drew a map on one of the pages of our Quimby’s. It described a river going under a bridge as it entered Mobile Bay. Just upstream from the bridge on the right descending bank was the Grand Mariner Marina. He pointed out that several other marinas were near the exit of the river. It looked like we would have it easy when we got to Mobile. I wouldn’t find out until Wednesday how wrong I was.

I noticed a couple of old gas cans outside the store and asked Fred if he had any for sale. He said he didn’t have any for sale, but he would give us one of those old ones. It didn’t have a cap on the pouring spout, so I fashioned a plug from a piece of wood, and asked him to put only four gallons in the five-gallon can. I figured, if one of the marinas was closed, we might make it to the next by having a third spare can of fuel.

At 11:00 A.M., Bob and Ted arrived back at the marina, and we prepared to depart. Our main battery was dead, so we switched to one of the auxiliary batteries, and began our 90-mile journey to Demopolis. In a few minutes we were at the Tom Bevill Lock and Dam where it was a little slow, and 50 minutes passed before we exited the bottom of the lock. We ran the next 40 miles to Howell Heflin Lock and Dam in an hour and forty-five minutes, and took only 21 minutes to complete the lock passage. We went a few miles downstream, where I stopped and emptied two of our spare cans of gas into the fuel tank. Ted took over the wheel, brought the boat up to 30 mph, and we made the last 50 miles to Demopolis Yacht basin in a little over two hours. It was 4:30 P.M., and we certainly weren’t going another 98 miles today, so we added a dock fee to our fuel bill, and reserved a courtesy car for 7:40 P.M.

Demopolis Yacht Basin was very modern and expansive. They had a restaurant perched on stilts overlooking the slips, but it was closed Mondays. The first chore I took care of was pulling a back muscle by wrestling the main battery out of the boat. I eased the strain by carrying the battery 100 yards up to the service shop for an overnight charge. At 6:40 P.M., the courtesy car was available, so we drove to the Red Barn Restaurant, where we finally had all we could eat gumbo from the salad bar. On the way back to the marina, I picked up a six-pack of beer. As I sat in a chair outside the laundry room, I could hear Bob talking to Steve (a young employee we met here this afternoon.) At 11:00 P.M., with Bob and Steve still reminiscing, I hit the sack, and slept so soundly that I didn’t recall any dreams.

When I awoke Tuesday morning, April 4^th, my back ached from struggling with the battery the day before. We got up at 6:30 A.M., stowed some gear, and went up to use the restrooms. I was returning from the service shop with the charged battery, when I noticed that the restaurant was open. Ted and I went up for some coffee. After drinking a cup, I went back to the boat to fetch Bob for breakfast. We discussed our plans. If we could make 136 miles today, to Lady’s Landing, then we would be only 80 miles from Mobile.

We eagerly shoved off at 10:00 A.M., and arrived at Demopolis Lock 20 minutes later. We departed the lock 25 minutes later and headed into our longest stretch between fuel stops. We planed along at 25 to 30 mph down the winding passage through beautiful Alabama landscapes. About half way to Bobby’s Fish Camp, ominous thunderheads pressed against the hills around us. This looked like a good time to add fuel to the tank from the spare cans. We stopped in a wide spot in the river, and as we emptied the second can into the tank, it began to rain. The rain made visibility poor, so we cruised at only eight-mph for the next ten miles. When the weather cleared, Ted took the wheel, and made good speed for the next hour. Soon after I took the wheel again, the wind picked up, and a six-inch chop formed on the water surface. Even so, I kept our speed up, and we bounced across the surface, our teeth clenched against the jarring ride.

As we pulled into Bobby’s Fish Camp, it began to rain again. As Ted and Bob secured the boat at the dock, I walked up to a cabin a few hundred feet up on shore. An old man sat serenely in a chair with his feet on the railing of the covered porch. After shaking the rain off my slicker, I broke the silence to ask for fuel. He barked, "Go on down to the dock. I’ll turn on the pump." When I returned to pay for the 38 gallons of fuel, he charged an additional $1.80 service charge since I used my credit card. A lot of the places, we visited in the South, didn’t take credit cards. It was 40 more miles to Lady’s Landing and not yet four o’clock. I hoped we could get dockage there, as there was none here at this "on channel" fuel stop.

We arrived a few miles downstream at Coffeeville Lock and Dam at 4:10 P.M. This being the last lock of our journey, we naturally had to wait for traffic to clear the lock before we could proceed. There was no room to accommodate us with the large barge already inside. We floated around for an hour while they lowered and then raised the water in the lock. At 5:30 P.M. we were finally down and off on the last 37 miles to Lady’s Landing. If our luck held out we could be there before dark. Quimby’s documented Lady’s Landing as being "on channel" with limited transient docking.

For about ten minutes we skimmed over calm waters at 25 mph. Soon the wind picked up and we were being tossed about by the swells. It was a rough ride, but I attempted to maintain at least 22 mph. At places where the protecting hills thinned, the higher swells forced me to slow to eight mph. After what seemed like an eternity, we spotted Lady’s Landing at 7:00 p.m. There was a short dock parallel to shore, but it was completely occupied by three yachts. We cruised up and down the shoreline around the dock looking for a suitable place to beach the boat. There were options both upstream and downstream. We chose the downstream location, beached the boat, and secured a line to a tree. I plodded through mud up the shore toward some buildings. Before I could reach them, a tall young fellow came running down yelling, "Don’t park there." He explained, "That’s a soft sandbar that will silt up and lock your boat in." He then pointed at the other spot we had considered and said, "Go over to that upstream location." I shoved the boat off, with Bob and Ted onboard, and I walked along the shore with the fellow to assist them in landing at the proper location. It was a deep channel that barely penetrated the shoreline, but it provided excellent floatation with only a few inches of the hull being beached. After Ted tossed a line, I tied the boat to a tree, and followed the fellow up to the cabin to get some snacks for our supper tonight. We would get fuel tomorrow morning after the yachts were gone.

The folks here seemed undisturbed, as a Billy goat followed me up the steps and through the open doorway of the store. Their Great Dane was already roaming the floor of their small store, as I eyed the area for any signs of food. The most substantial food I could buy was beef sticks, spicy hot links, potato chips and orange juice. I arrived back at the boat just as it was growing dark. We attached the rear tarp and ate our snacks. I had a beer left over from Demopolis, and warm as it was, it tasted great. My back ached worse than ever as I tried to find the perfect position within the contours of my bed. My dreams were of difficult dockings, and of Dorothy and Arlene aiding us in planning our logistics for the last 80 miles to Mobile.

Wednesday morning at 6:30 A.M. all hands stowed the gear anxious to travel. After I untied the boat, Bob piloted it over to the fuel dock, as I walked there to meet them and help refuel. After I paid for the 17 gallons of gas, the proprietor gave me an ink pen that had Lady’s Landing printed on it. We left the dock at 7:45 under heavily overcast skies. The water was calm, as Bob piloted the boat, while I washed the windows. After about 45 minutes Bob turned the wheel over to Ted. We slowed a few times for passing barges and powerboats. After an hour I took the wheel again, and wouldn’t you know, the water got choppy. We were bouncing along at 22 mph, when I felt a lurch in the boat. I shut down the motor, and Ted inspected the propeller. The electric cord to the cooler we had never used had dangled over the rear and been chopped up by the propeller. Fortunately, the only damage done was to the cord.

Other waterways joined our channel. We had to look all around to find channel markers to assure we were on course for Mobile. I didn’t realize yet that Mobile Bay charts would have been a great asset to us. We must have been less than ten miles from Mobile when we spied a railroad bridge crossing the river downstream from us. The Tenn-Tom waterway guide indicated it was called "14-Mile Bridge". From a half mile away, it didn’t look like there was much clearance under the bridge, but I thought, "Surely small boats must pass under it. Perhaps we could radio the bridge." We couldn’t see a bridge control station, but I went ahead and radioed, "Hello bridge, this is the Sippi. Come in bridge." I felt foolish, and we continued approaching. I slowed to an idle a hundred yards from the bridge. It looked low, but was it too low? As we drifted with the current, closer and closer, the question repeated itself over and over, faster and faster. Finally, at 50 feet from the bridge, with almost no time to change course, I decided that the boat’s radio antennas would strike the bridge, but our roof should clear. Everyone held their breath, as the whip antennas began a rhythmic drumbeat on the beams of the understructure of the bridge. An endless ten seconds later and we were past the bridge and on our way into Mobile Alabama. This obviously was not the bridge over the river, as described on my hand drawn map to Grand Mariner Marina, but signs of civilization were encroaching on the shores.

We were entering Mobile at noon, and the channel widened, as commercial facilities appeared on the shores. The water became a little choppy, as we began to encounter freighter traffic. Since we had gone eighty miles, we added two of our spare cans of gas to the fuel tank. The shores were lined with high concrete walls, only suitable for mooring large ships. We kept to the right descending bank in search of the Grand Mariner or any pleasure boat facility, but only large shipping facilities dotted the shore. According to the map sketched for me, "Just before we enter the bay, before the bridge, Turner Marina will be on our left and Grand Mariner on our right." We still could see no bridge over the river, and the bay seemed to be a few miles ahead of us. We pulled over to a docked fireboat, and while I maneuvered the boat to keep us away from the wall, Bob queried the personnel as to the location of the Grand Mariner Marina. The fireman said, "Go on down about four miles and turn right." It was a brief description, but we left with that.

About three miles south of the fireboat, the bay began to loom ominously in front of us. The waves began to pick up. At first, one-foot waves rocked the boat. Then, two footers began tossing us about as we entered the bay. Soon, three-foot waves were splashing over the bow and we were bobbing up and down like a yo-yo. I didn’t understand why we were even in the bay when the marinas were supposed to be on the river. I didn’t like the conditions we were in either. So, contrary to Bob’s advice to continue on, I turned around and re-entered the river to look for a turn we missed or ask for more directions. I found and explored a small side passage we had passed, but it didn’t pan out. Soon, I spied a dock worker and I asked, "How do you get to Grand Mariner Marina?" He said, "Follow the channel markers out into the bay and then turn south paralleling the shore. The marina is right on the mouth of Dog River." Now, I understood our confusion. The river, on the map sketched for me, was not the one we were coming down. Bob didn’t say anything, as I swung the boat about and headed for the bay again. Before we entered the bay, we emptied our third (and last) spare can of fuel into the tank.

As we followed the channel markers into the bay, we were besieged by three-foot waves. Fog was rolling in from the east. The western shore of the bay began fading in the mist. I insisted that regardless of channel markers, we should keep the western shore in sight so we might spot Dog River. We had traveled about a mile south when I spotted an inlet on the western shore and decided we should head for it. It turned out to be a Coast Guard Station with an actual small boat pier. We docked, and I went up on shore to talk to some construction workers. A foreman told me we needed to follow the channel markers east one mile out to the middle of the bay, and then turn south and follow the channel markers eight miles to the south, where there would be a westward channel leading to Dog River. I asked him if you had to follow the channel markers, and he said, "Not if you know the bay." I went back to the boat to relay the information. Bob agreed we should try to locate gas before pushing on. I went back to the foreman, and he told me there was a military gas station just a block away, but I would need a military ID to buy fuel there. Seeing our need, he agreed to meet Ted and I there, so he could use his ID to let us purchase the fuel. Afterwards, we hauled the fuel cans back to the boat and emptied them into the tank.

As we left the Coast Guard station, I set a waypoint on my GPS, so we could find our way back there if we got lost. We plugged along to the east following the channel markers. I anxiously searched for the southerly channel markers as the western shore began to fade behind us. After what seemed like a mile of easterly travel I impatiently turned southward, before reaching the southern channel markers in the middle of the bay. I could still barely see the western shoreline. As we continued south riding the roller coaster of three foot waves, suddenly a five foot wave broke over the bow, continued up the windshield, and under the tarp to drench Bob and I sitting in the front seats. The fog to our east was still ominous, but did not appear to be in our path for now. Soon I saw what appeared to be a bridge on the shoreline, so I broke from our southerly course to investigate. It turned out to be only a row of wood pilings extending into the bay. I turned back to a southeasterly course away from shore. I didn’t want to think about what kind of shoals and debris we could run into, since we were out of the navigation channels.

We continued paralleling the western shore from a couple miles out. We plowed through the high seas at about six to eight mph not seeing any channel markers during our southerly course. I hoped that Ted’s devotion to attending church would bring us luck on this meandering path to our destination. Finally, I spotted the Bridge over Dog River, and soon after, I saw channel markers running westerly toward the river. Suddenly, all my tension dissolved, as we entered the marked channel in the bay and turned westward toward Dog River. Just beyond the bridge, structures appeared that looked like marinas, and just like that, we were done. We had made it from the Great Lakes to the Gulf of Mexico by boat. And, we were still alive.

|Chap-1 Prologue and Preparations |Chap-2 Illinois Waterways | Chap-3 The Mississippi |
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